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HENRY VON EICHENFELS 




now 


HENRY YON EICHENFELS 

CAME TO THE 

KNOWLEDGE OF GOD. 


BY 

CHRISTOPH YON SCHMID. 

n 


Translated from the German by 
Rev. A. M. Grussi, C. PP. S. 


ST. JOSEPH’S COLLEGE PRESS. 

COLLEGEVILLE, IND. 

1898. 




•vV 


1st COPY, 
1898J 


COPYRIGHT BY REV. A. M. GRUSSI, C. PP. S. 
April 29, 1898. 



TWO COPIES RECEIVED* 


CONTENTS 


CHAP. PAGE 

I. An Angelic Task 5 

II. Result of a Trifling Disobedience ... 9 

III. The Mother’s Grief 14 

IV. In the Robbers’ Den 20 

V. The Escape from the Den 27 

VI. The Hermitage 33 

VII. The Sun and the Flowers 37 

VIII. Plants and Trees 42 

IX. The Fountain and the Rain 46 

X. The Greatest Question Answered ... 50 

XI. A Journey to the Mountains 57 

XII. An Unexpected Visit 65 

XIII. The Father’s Joy 69 

XIV. The Afflicted Mother Consoled .... 74 

XV. Reward and Punishment 81 


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CHAPTER I. 


AN ANGELIC TASK. 

In the first half of the eighteenth century 
there lived, in an ancient and very stately castle 
that was located near an immense forest, a Ger- 
man nobleman and his virtuous wife, Count 
Frederick and Countess Adelaide von Eichen- 
fels. They had only one child, named Henry, 
a tender and most handsome boy whom they 
loved with all the fervor of parental affection. 
Before the child was able to pronounce the 
word father , the noble count had to leave home 
to serve his king in a war. His pious consort 
remained in the castle ; and she felt it to be 
her greatest consolation and her only joy, dur- 
ing her husband’s absence and while she lived 
in lonely retirement, that she could have her 
darling little Henry with her to bear her com- 
pany. 

Jt was her purpose to devote herself entirely 
to the education of her boy; and with all the 
ardor of her loving heart did she long for the 
hour when, bearing the lovely child in her 
5 


6 


AN ANGELIC TASK. 


arms, she could go out to meet her husband on 
his return from the war. 

On a certain evening the countess was sitting 
in one of the rooms of the castle, with the in- 
fant resting in her lap. Margaret, the gover- 
ness, was standing beside her, holding up some 
newly-gathered flowers before the boy’s face. 
While the girl was thus playing with the child 
in a friendly way, the mother watched him 
stretching out his little hands to grasp the 
flowers; and she felt exceedingly happy in be- 
holding the infant’s joyful smiles. Suddenly a 
servant who had accompanied his master into 
the field, entered the room and brought the 
countess the sad message that her husband had 
been seriously wounded in a battle, and that 
before his death, which might be very near at 
hand, he wished once more to see his wife. 
The countess turned deathly pale ; and she was 
seized with such a trembling that she could 
scarcely hold the boy in her arms. When the 
messenger saw how profound the anguish of 
the noble countess was, he tried to lead her 
into the belief that her husband would recover 
from his wound ; yet he was obliged to inform 
her that she would have to travel day and 
night, if she wished to see him still among the 


AN ANGELIC TASK . 


7 


living. The countess resolved to set out on the 
journey immediately. With hot tears did she 
moisten her child’s face. “ My dear little 
Henry,” she exclaimed, “ alas ! you cannot even 
guess why your mother is weeping so piteously. 
Poor child, you will lose your father without 
being old enough to know him ! Oh, how it 
pains me that I cannot take you along with me 
on this journey to the military camp ! ” 

Then turning to the governess, she said, “ O 
Margaret, to you I deliver the most precious 
jewel that I must leave behind when I go. 
Take good care of the child. Do not let the 
boy remain alone for a single moment, not even 
while he is asleep. Wait on him with as much 
attention as if I myself were present. When- 
ever the weather is fair, especially in the morn- 
ing, carry him out into the garden where the 
air is cool and fresh. Sing a song for him 
sometimes, and speak to him. Often show him 
a beautiful flower or some other lovely object. 
Let him never handle what might prove dan- 
gerous for him, anything that he might cut 
himself with or that he might swallow. Above 
all you shall never dare to hurt him, or let him 
feel your anger and resentment because of his 
childish awkwardness. To take care of chil- 


3 


AN ANGELIC TASK. 


dren is a task which the angels are most fond 
of. The jani tress whom I place in charge of 
the house during my absence will report to me 
whether or not you have carried out all my 
directions. Promise me that you will never be 
heedless of these admonitions, so that I may be 
without anxiety at least in this regard. 1 shall 
count the hours that must elapse before I can 
return. If you can then place the boy in my 
arms strong and in good health — be assured, I 
shall know how to reward you. I shall also 
bring you something beautiful with which, I am 
sure, you will be highly pleased.” 

Margaret made the best of promises. The 
countess kissed the boy and blessed him ; and 
having uttered a silent prayer, with her tearful 
eyes turned heavenward, she placed the child 
in the girl’s arms. Amid the loud weeping and 
lamenting of all her servants, the noble lady en- 
tered the carriage ; and despite the fact that 
night was approaching and the rain was pour- 
ing down in torrents, she drove out of the yard 
before the castle. 


CHAPTER II. 


RESULT OF A TRIFLING DISOBEDIENCE. 

Margaret was a poor orphan girl from the 
country. She was of a devout, childlike dis- 
position ; she was always cheerful and light- 
hearted, and possessed a rosy comeliness of per- 
son. It was on this account that her mistress 
had chosen her to be little Henry’s governess. 
The good, pious girl carefully observed all that 
the countess had commanded her. Not a single 
hour passed by in which she did not recall to 
mind the directions she had received from the 
countess. She loved the noble woman as being 
her greatest benefactress, and the boy himself 
was the object of her most cordial affection. 
She honored him, even then, as the future 
count and her master that was to be. 

One day Margaret sat beside the cradle of 
the sleeping infant engaged in doing some 
knitting. The cradle was provided with a roof 
that overhung the boy’s head ; and on the in- 
side of this roof the girl had fastened some 
roses in order that the child, on awakening, 
9 


10 RESULT OF A TRIFLING DISOBEDIENCE. 


might be delighted with seeing something beau- 
tiful. A piece of white gauze was laid over 
the cradle to protect the little sleeper against 
the flies. Sweeter and more beautiful than 
even the roses did the cheeks of the sleeping 
boy appear through the thin gauze. 

While the governess was thus engaged, some 
itinerant musicians made their appearance be- 
fore the gates of the castle and began to play 
their instruments. The people of the castle all 
came together; and having admitted the stran- 
gers into one of the lower rooms, they made 
ready, their mistress not being at home, to 
spend the afternoon in hearing the music and 
amusing themselves with dancing. Margaret 
loved nothing better than music ; nevertheless 
she remained sitting undisturbed beside the 
cradle. After a few minutes George, the gar- 
den-boy, came hurriedly into the room. “ O 
Maggie,” he cried, “do come down to us into 
the lower room ! You can’t imagine what a 
gay time we’re having. I have never, in all my 
life, heard such splendid music. One of the 
musicians has a tambourine, and he pounds on 
it as if he intended to knock it into pieces. A 
little boy is striking the triangle, and that 
doesn’t sound badly either; and a large boy 


RESULT OF A TRIFLING DISOBEDIENCE. 11 


with plump cheeks is blowing a horn which 
makes one’s ears tingle — he plays it louder than 
the other does the triangle. Come down as 
quickly as you can.” 

Margaret replied that she was not permitted 
to leave the child even for one moment. “ Oh* 
don’t be so silly,” remarked the heedless boy. 
“ You don’t want to play the saint all alone, do 
you? The boy is sleeping soundly, and you 
can’t help him to sleep better. Come on, and 
don’t be so awkward. Jn a quarter of an hour 
you will be back again. You cannot refuse to 
go a round with me in the dance.” Margaret 
went with the lad, though her conscience up- 
braided her sharply for doing so. She felt very 
little pleasure while she was below; on the 
contrary, her heart was seized with a great fear. 
She wanted to leave the room, but her com- 
panions were determined not to let her go. At 
last she tore herself away by force and hurried 
back to the cradle of the child she loved so 
much and which was entrusted to her care. 

But — what a feeling of terror took posses- 
sion of her ! The cradle was empty ; there 
was nothing to be seen of the boy ! She re- 
covered from her fright and tried to console 
herself with the thought that one of her com- 


12 RESULT OF A TRIFLING DISOBEDIENCE 

panions, for a joke, had placed the child in 
some other bed in order thereby to frighten her. 
But the very thought that the countess might 
find it out caused her to tremble. She ran 
from one room to another — nowhere a trace of 
the missing boy! A deadly fear seized her. 
She hurried down into the room again and 
called out to the dancers, “ The young count 
has been taken out of his cradle. Which of 
you has tried to frighten me so cruelly by re- 
moving the child ? ” 

There was none that know anything about 
it. None of them had been in the room during 
her absence. They all quit dancing and the 
musicians left the castle without waiting for 
the usual spending- money. As many as were 
in the room hurried up the stairs, all being 
most profoundly alarmed. The castle was 
searched from top to bottom, and soon it was 
observed that besides the child quite a number 
of valuable articles were missing. What con- 
clusion could they come to but that the boy 
had been stolen? 

The hilarity to which all had given them- 
selves so freely a short while before was now 
turned into weeping and lamenting. “My 
God ! ” said the janitress, sobbing loudly, 


RESULT OF A TRIFLING DISOBEDIENCE. 13 


“oh! pity our good mistress! How will she 
feel when she hears of this? It will surely 
cause her death ! ” Margaret, the governess, 
was on the point of yielding to despair. She 
would have run away, and she might even 
have cast herself into the river, if her com- 
panions had not detained her. “ O merciful 
God ! ” she cried out repeatedly and full of the 
most bitter grief, “ who could have thought that 
so small an act of disobedience would be fol- 
lowed by such dreadful consequences?” 


CHAPTER III. 


THE MOTHER'S GRIEF. 

The domestics were all assembled in the upper 
room of the castle. The } 7 were highly alarmed, 
utterly confused ; they were weeping aloud, and 
deploring the calamity that had befallen them. 
And Margaret, poor girl! was sitting beside 
the empty cradle. The roses with which she 
had adorned the little wicker bed were scat- 
tered about her on the floor. She was almost 
crazed with grief; her hair was unloosed and 
disordered ; her dark eyes showed the expres- 
sion of an intense agony. All of a sudden and 
hastily the door was thrown open — and the 
countess entered the room. 

The count’s wound seemed to be less dan- 
gerous than it was at first thought to be. As 
soon as he was out of danger, he urged his wife 
to hasten back to their home; and indeed, the 
love and solicitude of her own heart impelled 
her still more to return to her beloved child. 
She had just alighted from her carriage; and 
14 


THE MOTHER'S GRIEF. 


15 


hurrying up the stairs to the room, she hoped 
to clasp her darling boy to her heart. 

The servants were terribly frightened on 
thus unexpectedly beholding the countess in 
their midst. Margaret uttered a loud cry. 
“God, have mercy on me and her!” she 
shrieked. With a sense of deep alarm the 
countess beheld the pale faces of her attend- 
ants, their eyes reddened from weeping, Mar- 
garet’s look of despair, and the empty cradle 
standing in the room. A thousand forebod- 
ings, a thousand terrifying thoughts flashed 
like lightning through her soul. No one dared 
to answer the questions she asked. She began 
to fear that her child had been killed. At 
length, partly through the information she re- 
ceived and partly through her own surmising, 
she learned what had taken place during her 
short absence. She felt as though heaven and 
earth were falling upon her — she fainted ; and 
she would certainly have sunken on the floor, 
if the servants had not supported her. 

“ O God ! O God ! ” she exclaimed piteously, 
when after some time she had regained her 
consciousness, “ what a terrible grief hast Thou 
afflicted me with ! Alas, my child, my dearest 
child ! Oh, my husband, my beloved husband I 


36 


THE MOTHER'S GRIEF. 


This misfortune will wound you more deeply 
than did the sword of the enemy ! — O my 
darling little Henry, where may you now be? 
Into whose hands have you fallen ? Ah ! if 
you were to grow up among robbers, misled 
by them, without instruction, without being 
taught to acquire virtue and good manners, — 
what a horrible fate ! I tremble even to think 
of it. I would much rather weep at your little 
grave. Yes, then I could be sure that you are 
a beautiful angel before the throne of God, and 
I could console myself with the thought that 
one day I shall see you and be united with you 
again. But now I cannot enjoy even this, the 
only and sweetest consolation I could have for 
losing you ! Alas ! what can, what will be- 
come of you, growing up in the company of 
such wicked people? 

“ O God ! ” she exclaimed again, falling on 
her knees, and amid a flood of tears raising her 
folded hands toward heaven, u ,0 Thou good 
and merciful God, Thou art our only consola- 
tion in all our afflictions ! My child is torn 
from me, but it cannot be taken out of the 
reach of Thy all-powerful arm. I do not know 
the dark forest, the hidden robbers’ den, in 
which my boy is now secreted ; but Thy eye 


THE MOTHER'S GRIEF. 


17 


beholds him. wherever he ma}' be. It is im- 
possible for me, his mother, to render him any 
more services of loving care, but Thou, and 
Thou alone, canst preserve him. Thou hear- 
est the cries of the young ravens : — oh ! do 
Thou also hear the cry of this child which cer- 
tainly is weeping and ardently longing to be 
with its mother ! — But to my husband and my- 
self give Thou the grace to bear this trial with 
resignation. It is true, we have lost the boy 
through the negligence and impiety of others; 
but it is Thou who hast permitted the evil to 
be done. Thou hast designed it so; to Thee I 
offer the child with a confiding heart, though it 
be with tears and deep sorrow. I know for 
certain that this affliction, under the direction 
of Thy merciful providence, will result to my 
welfare.” It was in this manner that the sor- 
rowing mother consoled herself. 

Margaret, the governess, was quite in eon - 
solate. She cast herself on her knees before 
the countess and asked her pardon. “I assure 
you, noble lady,” said she, wringing her hands, 
“ 1 would most gladly sacrifice my blood to the 
last drop if I could thereby free the child out 
of the hands of the robbers. I pray you, let 
me be executed ; I will be glad to die.” The 


18 


THE MOTHER'S GRIEF. 


good countess forgave her. “ The sincerity 
of your sorrow, Margaret, deserves pardon,” 
said she, “and I promise that no harm shall 
come to you on account of this misfortune. 
But now you realize how well I meant it and 
how prudent my directions were. You have 
learned now from experience what dreadful re- 
sults can come from disobedience, levity, and a 
hankering after worldly amusements. The 
pleasures we all might have enjoyed are now 
lost, just like these roses that are lying about 
us on the floor withered and torn.” 

The countess, having recovered from her 
first fright, and learning that the boy had been 
robbed only a couple of hours before, sent a 
considerable number of men out to scour the 
country, in hopes that some trace of him might 
be found. One messenger after another re- 
turned to the castle. Margaret ran out to 
meet them as often as one came in sight. 
Even from the distance she noticed, from the 
expression on the man’s face, that he bore no 
good tidings; and that caused her tears to 
flow afresh each time. The last messenger re- 
turned home without having found even the 
slightest clew, and it seemed as though the 
poor governess would weep herself blind. 


THE MOTHER'S GRIEF. 


19 


Gradually, however, she became more com- 
posed. Yet she was always very pale, and she 
walked about as though she were haunted by 
her own shadow. Everybody pitied the un- 
happy girl. All of a sudden she disappeared, 
and no one could tell where she had gone to. 


CHAPTER IV. 


IN THE KOBBEILS’ DEN. 

An old, ugly-looking gipsy woman, witn 
coal-black hair, and yellowish-brown face, had 
stolen the boy. This woman made it her busi- 
ness to cheat superstitious people by means of 
telling their fortune, and even to rob them 
whenever an opportunity offered. Under this 
pretext she had already once before visited 
the castle, on which occasion she carefully 
spied out all the conditions of the locality. 
She had a secret understanding with the old- 
est of the three musicians ; and while this 
fellow drew the inmates of the castle into the 
lower room by the uproarious playing of the 
instruments, the gipsy slipped through a small 
gate in the wall of the garden which the care- 
less garden-boy had left standing open. 
Crossing the garden, she stealthily ascended a 
winding stair which was but seldom made use 
of; she slunk into the boy’s room and took the 
sleeping infant out of the cradle ; and having, 
moreover, gathered such valuables as she 
20 


IN THE ROBBERS' DEN. 


21 


found ready at hand, she fled with the boy 
across the garden into the adjacent forest. 

There the woman hid herself in a thicket, 
waiting for the shadow of night to come ; then 
during the several hours of darkness that fol- 
lowed, she proceeded on her way, carrying the 
child with her. She took care to travel only 
on roads that she knew were scarcely known 
and seldom frequented. During the daytime 
she concealed herself in some dense jungle, or 
in a field grown with corn. She had provided 
herself with an abundance of provisions. Thus 
she journeyed on foot for many miles until she 
reached the mountains. In one of these moun- 
tains there was a deep, subterraneous cavern, a 
most horrible place. It had once formed part 
of a mine, which was then deserted and had 
mostly caved in. The entrance to this cavern 
was so well covered with debris and dense 
brush-wood that a person unacquainted with 
the location could scarcely discover it. The 
gipsy woman, for quite a distance, made her 
way across broken rocks and through a thicket 
of thorny shrubs and blackberry bushes, until 
at length she reached an iron door the key of 
which she carried with her. This door she 
opened ; and after proceeding for nearly an 


22 


IN THE ROBBERS 1 DEN. 


hour, through a long and gloomy passage, she 
at last arrived in the cavern. 

This cavern was the dwelling-place of a band 
of robbers. Here it was they concealed them- 
selves from the searching eyes of the law ; here 
they also concealed, locked up in large, heavy 
chests, the valuable goods they had robbed — a 
lot of rich clothing and costly furniture, gold 
and silver, pearls and precious stones. When 
the gipsy woman with the child entered, the 
robbers, fierce-looking fellows, with coarse faces 
and ragged beards, were all sitting together, pass- 
ing their time in drinking, smoking, and play- 
ing cards. They rejoiced exceedingly when 
they learned that the child was the young 
Count von Eichenfels, and they highly com- 
plimented the old gipsy on the adroitness with 
which she had executed the robbery. They 
had long wished to get a child of such noble 
parentage into their power. “ Granny,” said 
the leader of the band, “ you have done splen- 
didly. Now we are perfectly secure. If ever 
any of us gets caught and they want to punish 
him, then he needs only to threaten that the 
rest of our gang, according to our agreement, 
will torture this little chap to death. That 
will force them to show him mercy, and they 


IN THE ROBBERS' DEN. 


23 


may even set him free.” The captain then 
gave the old gipsy, who served the robbers as 
cook and housekeeper, the strictest orders to 
take the best possible care of the bo} 7 , so that 
he might be sure not to die in their hands. 

In this horrible cave the boy grew up until 
he came to the use of reason, and here also he 
learned to speak. The remembrance of his 
early childhood was completely effaced. He 
lost all idea of the sun, the moon, and the 
whole beautiful world created by God. Not 
a single ray of sunlight ever penetrated into 
this dark and frightful abode. A lamp, burn- 
ing day and night, hung from the soot-covered 
ceiling of the cave, dimly illumining the rough 
walls with its reddish light. There was no lack 
of provisions. The robbers brought in meat, 
bread, vegetables, and especially such articles 
of food as could easily be preserved ; and also 
an abundant supply of wine. A large barrel 
in one corner of the cave, which they filled from 
time to time with fresh water, served this un- 
derground household in place of a well. But 
since they were obliged to fetch the water from 
a great distartce, the old woman repeatedly 
cautioned the boy always to close the faucet 
well. A litter of rushes, which however was 


24 


7/V THE ROBBERS' DEN. 


laid over with costly blankets, furnished the 
robbers with a bed for their night’s rest. 

The gipsy took the utmost care not to let the boy 
suffer the least want. She gave him plenty 
to eat, but she never instructed him in anything 
that is good. The boy learned neither to read 
nor to write, nor did he ever hear these wicked 
men say even a single word about God. There 
was only one among the robbers who was fond 
of conversing with little Henry. He was a 
young man named William, the son of righteous 
parents, who had been led to adopt this dread- 
ful manner of life through his love for gamb- 
ling. This young man, whenever he returned 
to the cave, always brought some plaything 
with hinj and gave it to the boy that he might 
use it to pass the time. He also gave him 
various kinds of figures, cut out of wood and 
beautifully painted, as for instance the figures 
of a herd of sheep, with a shepherd and a shep- 
herd-dog, a garden of different kinds of trees 
hung with yellow and red fruit, a small mirror, 
and other playthings of the kind suitable for 
children. Once he bought a little flute, and 
taught the boy to play a song' with it ; and on 
another occasion he brought him a bouquet of 
painted flowers, and then taught him how to 


IN THE ROBBERS' DEN. 


25 


cut such flowers himself out of paper, to put 
them together and to paint them in various 
colors. In this manner did little Henry spend 
many an hour. Among all his toys there was 
nothing the boy was fonder of than a miniature 
picture of his mother which the old gipsy had 
stolen from the castle. It was a picture most 
beautifully painted, framed in gold and crystal, 
and set all around with costly diamonds. The 
old woman let the boy have it only now and 
then, and never for a long time, and only 
whenever she was in a specially good humor. 

William frequently gazed on the beautiful 
picture — he could not help secretly brushing 
the tears out of his eyes every time he did so, 
for the picture reminded him vividly of his own 
mother. “ Poor child ! ” he would say to 
himself, “it was cruel, indeed, to tear you away 
from the heart of such a good mother. Oh, 
how very differently you would be treated at 
home than you are treated here in this fright 
ful place ! And your mother — how she must 
be mourning for you ! If it were possible, I 
would most gladly take you back to her. But 
how can I ? Iam myself kept here like a pris- 
oner. Hundreds of times would I have run 
away, if my pretended friends were not so sus- 


26 


IN THE ROBBERS' DEN. 


picious of me and would not watch me so care- 
fully.” 

The young man often conversed with little 
Henry on many different subjects and he told 
him many things which caused the boy great 
pleasure and which also tended to awaken and 
develop his youthful intellect; but he never 
dared to tell him a word about God and eter- 
nity, for that the other robbers would not toler- 
ate. They shunned everything that was calcu- 
lated to arouse their sleeping consciences. 


CHAPTER V. 


THE ESCAPE FROM THE DEN. 

When the boy had grown older, he became 
very anxious to know where the men went to 
whenever they left the cave. He always begged 
them to take him along. But they only re~ 
fused, checking his inquisitiveness with harsh 
and abrupt answers, and telling him to wait till 
the next time. Once the robbers had gone out 
again on one of their expeditions. The old 
gipsy woman, being now unable to make any 
journeys on foot, always had to remain back in 
the cave. She was very lonely company for 
the sprightly boy. She was extremely morose ; 
and for hours she would sit behind a green 
lamp-screen, her eyes being bleared, where she 
would mend some pieces of old linen clothing, 
or count money, without ever saying a word to 
the boy. At other times she would sleep and 
snore for hours. 

That day, while the robbers were gone, and 
the old woman again had one of her sleeping 
spells, the boy took courage to light a wax 
• 27 


'28 


THE ESCAPE FROM THE DEN. 


candle and to enter the daik passage through 
which he had so often seen the robbers leaving 
the cavern. He walked on farther and farther 
until at last he reached the iron door. He tried 
to open it but could not, for it was securely 
closed by a heavy iron lock. Sadly the boy 
turned back. But the passage through which 
he had come was connected with a number of 
smaller side-passages, in which one could walk 
about for hours below the earth. The boy en- 
tered the first of these side-passages that he 
came to when he was walking back ; and after - 
lie had walked on for a considerable distance, 
and his burnt-down candle was about to ex- 
tinguish, — just then he beheld, some distance 
ahead of him, something that looked like a 
burning light. Full of joyful curiosity he has- 
tened on toward this object. As he drew 
nearer the thing became larger until it appeared 
to him like a tall, fieiy column standing up- 
right. The courageous boy walked on until 
at last he came to a clift in the rock through 
which the light of the early dawn was shining 
in. The clift was more than large enough for 
him to creep through — and with one joyous 
bound little Henry sprung out into the open 
air. 


THE ESCAPE FROM THE DEN. 


29 


What was his surprise, when, after his long 
sojourn in the dark, subterraneous cavern, he 
for the first time stood under God’s lovely, blue 
firmament, in a locality surrounded by most 
beautifully wooded mountains — where is there a 
human tongue able to describe it? It was a 
bright summer morning. The sun was about 
to ascend in the east, and the morning sky 
glowed as though it were ablaze, while on the 
forests and mountains there hung a veil of red- 
dish mist. The earth all about him was cov- 
ered with grass and flowers ; he heard for the 
first time the singing of the birds. Below in 
the valley he beheld a lake in whose clear, 
tranquil surface the dawning sky and the ver- 
dant mountain tops were reflected. 

The boy appeared as though he had been 
struck by lightning. He was completely en- 
raptured; he felt as though lie had been, awak- 
ened from a long and death-like sleep, and he 
staggered as one who is yet half asleep. All 
that lie could do was to gaze at the wonders ; 
for a long time he could not think sufficiently 
to express his amazement. At length he ex- 
claimed : “ Where do I find myself? How 

wide, how immensely wide this place is ! Oh, 
how beautiful, how grand everything is!” 


30 


THE ESCAPE FROM THE DEN. 


And then he stood gazing in speechless wonder- 
ment at a tall oak, or a cliff grown over with 
green pine-trees, or the lake shining bright as 
a mirror, or a brush covered with blooming 
wild roses. 

The next moment he beheld the sun arising 
above a pine-covered hill amid a thin and 
broken covering of golden clouds. The boy 
viewed the spectacle with fascinated eyes ; he 
imagined it was a fire whose flame was shooting 
up, and he really believed the clouds were 
burning. Staringly did he gaze in that direc- 
tion, until the sun, veiled with a light mist as 
with a transparent gauze, had ascended majestic- 
ally above the hills, golden, round, and re- 
splendent. “What can that be?” exclaimed 
little Henry. “ What a wonderful light ! ” And 
he continued to gaze, with wondering eyes and 
arms o.utstretched, until, blinded by the increas- 
ing splendor, he was forced to turn away. 

Henry next walked about for a short while ; 
but he scarcely dared to step on the grass, fear- 
ing lest he should trample on the beautiful 
flowers with which the ground was everywhere 
bedecked. Suddenly he espied a very young 
lamb which was lying under a flowering rose- 
bush. “ Why, a lamb, here is a lamb ! ” he ex- 


THE ESCAPE FROM THE DEN. 


31 


claimed joyfully. He ran up and took a hold 
of it. The lamb began to stir; it arose and 
commenced to bleat. The boy recoiled in great 
alarm. “ What can this be? ” he cried. “ Why, 
it is alive ! It can walk and it has a voice ! 
My lambs are all dumb and lifeless, and they 
cannot move from one place to another. What 
a wonder ! I should like to know who gave 
life to this lamb.” He wanted to begin a con- 
versation with the little animal ; he asked the 
lamb all sorts of questions — and he was not a 
little vexed when he found that it always an- 
swered him with the same inarticulate cry. 

Just then a young shepherd came along, a 
most handsome youth with red cheeks and yel- 
low hair. He had missed the lamb and was 
come to hunt for it. He had observed the boy 
for some time, and he knew not what to make 
of him. At first sight of the youth little Henry 
was greatly frightened ; but the young man 
greeted him with some friendly words, and so 
he took courage. “ Oh, how beautiful you 
are!” said he to the youth. “Pray, tell me,” 
he continued, pointing to the sky and the earth 
with his arms widely extended, “does this great 
wide cavern belong to you ? Will you not 
allow me to stay here with you and the lamb?” 


32 


THE ESCAPE FROM THE DEN. 


The youth could not understand what the boy 
meant; at first he thought the little fellow 
must be crazy. He asked him where he had 
come from. When the boy told him that he 
had crept out of the earth, when he spoke 
about old granny and the wild men with the 
rough beards — then the shepherd began to ex- 
perience some fear; yes, he was profoundly 
terrified. Nevertheless he had pity on the poor 
child. Placing Henry, on one of his arms, and 
carrying the lamb in the other, he hurried away 
as fast as he could run, just as if the robbers 
were after him in hot pursuit. 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE HEKMITAGE. 

In this same mountain district there lived an 
old, very venerable hermit whom the people 
generally knew and spoke of as Father Menrad. 
He was over eighty years of age and was loved 
and esteemed by the inhabitants of the district 
on account of his extraordinary wisdom and 
sterling piety. To this hermit the young shep- 
herd concluded to bring the boy whom he had 
found. The hermitage was only a short dis- 
tance away, being situated on the side of a hill 
next to the lake in the valley. It could well 
be likened to the garden of Eden. The her- 
mit’s peaceful hut, shaded by the leaves of an 
ancient grapevine, supported a roof that was 
grown over by a layer of evergreen moss. It 
stood within a group of shady fruit trees and 
was surrounded by a garden of loveliest flowers 
and wholesome herbs. Back of the hut there 
arose a vineyard, and on one side of it a narrow 
cornfield lay stretched out along the hill. And 
wherever else there was a vacant spot, the same 
33 


34 


THE HERM1TA (• E. 


was occupied by a tree bearing the choicest 
fruit ; or at least it contained a bush of some 
kind yielding the most luscious berries. On 
the top of a high cliff that overhung t he lake 
stood a chapel with its small tower pointing 
skyward. A flight of steps, cut into the rock, 
led up to the entrance of the chapel. 

When the young man opened the latticed 
gate which led into the garden, the venerable 
old recluse was sitting on a bench under an 
apple-tree, from which place a magnificent view 
could be had of the lake as it sparkled in the 
sunlight. He was reading devoutly from a 
large book that was lying before him on the 
table. The hair that grew sparsely on the aged 
head, as also the long and heavy beard, were 
white as snow ; but the cheeks still bore the 
red of health and vigor like those of youth. 

No sooner did the hermit notice his two visi- 
tors than he arose and greeted them with an 
expression of the most cordial friendliness. He 
listened attentively to the account the shepherd 
gave him ; after which, full of the tenderest 
pity, he took the boy in his arms and asked him 
to tell him his name. He readily surmised that 
the child had been stolen by the robbers from 
some family of noble rank. “Let the boy re- 


THE HERMITAGE. 


35 


main with me,” said he to the young shepherd, 
“and in the meantime do not speak about this 
affair to any one. I trust it will be possible to 
find the boy’s parents ; and until I succeed in 
finding them, the boy will be perfectly safe in 
hermitage. The robbers are afraid of my 
hut as of fire. Gold and silver they cannot 
discover here — they are aware of that ; and for 
good advice and wholesome instruction, which 
oftentimes are of much greater value than gold 
and silver, they have no taste.” Then he said 
to the boy, “Welcome, my dear Henry, most 
heartily welcome! I will be a father to you 
and you shall have the best possible care until 
I can restore you to your own father and 
mother. From this moment on you will not 
call me by any other name than that of father.” 

The hermit then placed some milk and bread 
before his guests and asked them to refresh 
themselves. When the young shepherd had 
finished his repast, lie took up his staff, intend- 
ing to return to his flock. But little Henry at 
first would not permit him to leave. He began 
to cry and took hold of his garment. It was 
only after the young man had promised that he 
would come again, and after he had given him 
the lamb for a present, that the boy declared 


36 


THE HERMITAGE. 


himself satisfied. Henry was overjoyed in be- 
ing allowed to keep the lamb, for he considered 
the little animal to be an object of immense 
value. 


CHAPTER VII. 


THE SUN AND THE FLOWERS. 

The shepherd being gone, the hermit placed 
the boy beside himself on the bench for the 
purpose of entering into a conversation with 
him. “Dear Henry,” he began, “don’t you 
remember anything at all about your father 
and mother?” 

“ O yes,” replied Henry, “ I have a beautiful 
mother — here in my pocket. Just look ! ” And 
he took out the little portrait of his mother 
which he had put in his pocket before leaving 
the robbers’ cave. The boy had never seen his 
mother’s portrait in the light of the sun. 
Imagine his astonishment when he now be- 
held the lustre and beauty of the picture. 
The radiance of the sparkling diamonds almost 
dazzled him. 

“ How bright everything appears hereabout! ” 
said he. “ Do tell me,” he continued, pointing 
at the sun, “ who has lighted that beautiful, 
golden lamp up yonder, which makes every- 
thing round about us look so bright? I can- 
37 


38 


THE SUN AND THE FLOWERS . 


not even look at it, the light is so strong. The 
lamp in our cave, compared with that one, gave 
a dim, most wretched light. — And how comes 
it that the lamp yonder is moving up always 
higher? When I first saw it, it was just 
rising from behind the trees, and soon it stood 
so high that 1 am sure I could not have reached 
it even from the top of the highest tree. What 
keeps it hanging so free in the air and moving 
along so easily ? There is no string tied to it 
that I can see. Where is this lamp going? 
And who is it that climbs up there to fill it 
afresh with oil ? ” 

Father Menrad told him that the large, beau- 
tiful light he had asked about was called the 
sun, that it was thousands of times older than 
little Henry himself, and that it always moved 
along and continued to burn that way without 
ever needing a single drop of oil. 

“ I can’t comprehend that,” said Henry. 
Then his attention was drawn to another ob- 
ject, and he exclaimed : “ What a wonderful 

lot of lovely flowers you have here ! ” The boy 
left the bench and ran over to the-little beds 
which all had the appearance of being so many 
baskets filled with flowers. “ Oh, how beauti- 
fully they are painted— red, yellow, and blue ! 


THE SUN AND THE FLOWERS. 


39 


And the petals, so numerous that they cannot 
be counted — how precious and delicate they 
are, and all so nicely cut one just like the 
other! What are they made of, I wonder? 
This is no paper ; yes, even silk is not as fine as 
the material these flowers are made of. Pray 
tell me : Did you make them ? If you did, 
then I am sure it must have taken you a very 
long time to finish them. You must have 
worked weeks and months to cut out all these 
flowers. In a number of them I notice some 
very thin, delicate fibres. To make such fibres 
one must have a pair of very fine scissors and good, 
sharp eyes. I have made some flowers myself, 
but such beautiful ones as these I could never 
make/’ 

Menrad declared that no human being could 
make such a flower. They had all grown up 
by themselves out of the earth. But Henry 
would not believe that. “ It is impossible,” he 
said. “I would much rather believe that you 
really did make them.” The hermit showed 
him the capsule of a poppy. It was filled with 
seed ; and he shook out some of the tiny, round 
grains on the boy’s hand, telling him that in 
each of these little grains there lay hidden a 
number of such large purple flowers. If the 


40 


THE SUN AN1) THE FLOWERS. 


seed were put in the earth, then the flowers 
would , grow up out of it. In like manner had 
all the other flowers sprung up out of the earth 
from such small seeds. The boy looked up at 
the old man, wondering if he really meant what 
he had said. Then he exclaimed: 44 Such a 
large, beautiful flower to grow up out of such a 
very small seed! Why, then a seed like this 
must have been constructed with a great deal 
more skill than the costliest golden watch ! ” 
“That is just exactly the truth,” remarked 
Father Menrad. 44 But tell me : Who made 
this wonderful little seed?” the boy asked 
again. 44 Why, I should think it would be 
easier to make all these flowers than to make 
even one such little grain like this ! ” 

Henry gazed on the flowers again. He went 
from one flower-bed to the other, and he thought 
he could never grow tired looking at them. 
But he soon felt that the light of the sun was 
becoming very warm. 44 What an amount of 
heat that lamp throws out ! ” he observed. 44 It 
is so far away, and yet it makes one feel quite 
warm. It is a most wonderful lamp ! ” Menrad 
led the boy back to the apple-tree where the 
bench and the table stood overshadowed by the 
dense foliage. 44 How cool and pleasant it is 


THE SUN AND THE FLOWERS. 


41 


here ! ” exclaimed Henry, looking up at the tree 
above him. “This tree is like a green um- 
brella, which protects one not only against the 
light when it becomes too strong, but also 
against the excessive heat. How large it is, 
and how many thousands of leaves there are 
growing on it ! The trunk, I suppose, is made 
of wood. I can scarcely believe any more that 
you have made this countless number of leaves 
and flowers. To make them would be too 
difficult a job.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


PLANTS AND TREES. 

Having thus conversed with Henry for a 
while, the hermit entered his hut to prepare 
the noon meal. First he brought out some 
milk and bread and also some butter and 
honey and a small basket full of the loveliest 
apples for the boy ; for himself he fetched some 
roots and herbs, a large, yellow melon, and 
some red wine in a glass bottle. Henry ate 
and drank with great relish. After a while he 
asked the hermit : “ Where did you get all 

these good things? Do you also sometimes 
go out like the men in the cave to rob from 
other people ? ” 

While they were eating, Father Men rad ex- 
plained to the boy how wonderfully all these 
things had grown. “ Behold,” he remarked, 
taking up an apple to peel it and cut it into 
pieces for Henry, “ all the apples in this basket 
came from the tree Under which we are sit- 
ting. Many basketfuls of such beautiful ap- 
ples grow from time to time out of the thin 
42 


PLANTS AND TREES. 


43 


twigs of this tree.” “Is that really so?” 
asked Henry, looking at Menrad with an ex- 
pression of serious doubt on his face. Father 
Menrad took the boy on his arm, and having 
pulled down one of the branches, he showed 
him the young green apples. “You see now,” 
he said, “how the apples are growing out of 
the twigs. They will become larger and larger,, 
until they are as large and as beautifully yellow 
and red as these are here in the basket. But 
the whole large tree itself,” he continued* 
while at the same time he cut the apple in 
two, “grew up out of a small seed like this one 
fastened to the blade of my knife. I remem- 
ber the time very well when this tree was 
nothing more than such a seed. In one little 
seed like this there lies hidden a whole large 
tree : yes, it contains a countless number of 
such trees. And even more than that : — from 
one such tiny seed so many apples might be 
raised that the world could not hold them, and 
that a man, even if he were to live a thousand 
years, could not finish counting them.” 

“ And this bread also comes from seeds very 
much like the seed of this apple,” and Father 
Menrad showed the boy a few grains of wheat 
that he brought with him out of the hut. 


44 


PL A NTS AND TREES. 


“With these grains it is the same as with the 
apple-seed. From one such grain we might 
get many thousand loaves of bread like this 
one lying before us on the table.” The her- 
mit explained to him in detail how it was done 
to raise such bread ; and while he was thus in- 
structing the boy, he pointed to a field of 
splendid wheat which, a short time before that, 
he said, was nothing but a plot of bare earth. 
Henry ran over to the field pointed out to him, 
and to his great delight he found that every 
ear he examined already contained a number 
of such small grains. 

And the same is true,” thus Father Men- 
rad concluded his instruction, “ with regard to 
all the green plants that you can see about you 
far and near. All these plants — the grass here 
at our feet, those blossoming rosebushes, the 
numberless ears of wheat in yonder field, and 
the vines that cover this hut and the hill be- 
hind it, the mighty oak and pine-trees over 
there on that mountain as well as the thin 
moss that grows here on the trunk of this ap- 
ple-tree — all these plants, large and small, have 
grown up and drawn their blossoms and fruit, 
or at least might have been raised so, out 
of one such little seed. All that you see here 


PLANTS AND TREES. 


45 


oil the table — the milk and butter which were 
drawn out of the grass ; the honey which was 
taken out of the flowers, the nutritious bread 
and the strengthening wine ; the herbs, and 
roots, and fruits here before us — this water- 
cress, this radish, this large, beautiful melon ; 
as also the twigs from which this basket is 
woven, the wood from which this plate and 
cup are made, yes, even the table and bench — 
all these things we owe to such small grains or 
seeds. At one time this place was a barren 
wilderness : — all that I had to do to change it 
into its present appearance was to plant such 
seeds in the earth, and behold ! there grew up 
— here, this apple-tree, and there, the ears of 
wheat by the thousands, and everything else 
that is necessary or useful for life and to make 
my abode in this place as delightful as it can 
be.” 

Henry could not but consider all this most 
extraordinary. A short time before he had 
gazed on all these various objects with the 
greatest wonder, and now he listened to the 
hermit’s narrative with a sense of profoundest 
amazement. 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE FOUNTAIN AND THE RAIN. 

Evening came and the sun was about to 
descend in the west. Soon the flower-beds 
lay iu the shadow of declining day. Some of 
the flowers, Father Menrad's special favorites, 
had begun slightly to wither in the hot sun- 
shine. Though he expected there would soon 
be a fall of rain, yet he thought it advisable to 
give at least his favorite flowers a sprinkling 
with water. He therefore took his sprinkling 
can, and leading the boy by the hand, went to 
a fountain which flowed copiously from out of 
a large, moss-covered rock. 

Henry clapped his hands in utter amaze- 
ment. “ What a quantity of water,” he cried, 
u is running out of this rock ! Every moment 
1 expect it to cease flowing, and yet it contin- 
ues to come in always the same abundance. 
Who is it that has poured this quantity of 
water in at the top, and where can you get 
water enough to keep up the supply ? — You 
46 


THE FOUNTAIN AND THE RAIN. 


47 


ought to close the hole, and use the water more 
sparingly, otherwise the supply will fail. ” 
Menrad told him that the water had flowed in 
the same abundance probably ever since the 
sun began to shine, that its quantity never di- 
minished, and that it needed no replenishing or 
pouring in from above. The lake below in 
the valley, he declared, which Henry had 
taken for an immensely large mirror, was noth- 
ing more than a collection of such water. All 
this the boy considered another great wonder. 

The hermit returned with the can full of 
water and immediately set to work sprinkling 
his flowers. “ Why, what are you doing?” ex- 
claimed Henry. “ You are spoiling your flow- 
ers. The water will surely make the color 
come off.” Menrad smiled and explained to 
the boy that the flowers and plants, the wheat- 
stalks and vines, the brushes and trees, which 
also had a certain kind of life, needed the 
water as much as men needed it for drinking. 
“ But,” asked Henry, “ who can carry enough 
water for all these plants and trees? Who 
will climb up yonder mountain to sprinkle the 
trees that are growing there on the top?” 
Menrad replied, “All that is well provided 
for. How it is done you will soon observe, — 


48 


THE FOUNTAIN AND THE RAIN. 


perhaps sooner than we imagine ! ” he added t 
glancing at the clouds in the distance. 

After a while there really came a cloud 
moving over the mountain ; soon it began to 
rain, first lightly, and then very heavily. That 
was another event that little Henry considered 
very extraordinary. “ That is an excellent ar- 
rangement,” he remarked, “ for it saves you 
much hard labor. The water descends so 
beautifully, in thousands and thousands of 
drops, as though it came out of a sprinkling 
can. — But who is it that causes this cloud, as 
you call the wonderful thing, to move along 
over the mountain ? How is it that the cloud 
hangs so freely in the air, and why don’t it 
fall down upon us?” “I will explain that tp 
you presently,” replied Father Menrad. The 
boy watched the cloud for a time longer until 
it was dispersed and the sky again wore its 
bright azure. 

Little Henry found so many objects to gaze 
at and admire, he was so filled with joy and 
amazement, that the day passed for him very 
quickly. Hundreds of objects that other peo- 
ple would pass by without scarcely noticing 
were to him such extraordinary wonders that 
he had any number of questions to ask, which 


THE FOUNTAIN AND THE RAIN. 


49 


questions the g^od hermit very lovingly an- 
swered — a little golden-green bug which he 
saw resting on the leaf of a rose ; a striped 
snail which was crawling up the trunk of the 
apple tree after the warm rain ; a hedge-spar- 
row that sat on the limb of a tree, warbling its 
raptured evening song, and then flying gayly 
from one tree to another ; the hermit’s goats re- 
turning from their mountain pasture, etc. 

Evening came and the sun was about to dis- 
appear beyond the distant shore of the lake. 
“I do declare,” exclaimed the boy, greatly 
alarmed, “the sun-lamp is sinking down in the 
water! The light will surely be extinguished, 
and then all our joy will be gone. If we light 
a lamp of our own — what good will that do us, 
this place being so large and immensely wide?” 

Father Menrad told him not to be disturbed. 
“ Have no fear, my little friend,” he observed. 
“We shall soon go to sleep, and for that we 
need no light. Before we awake in the morn- 
ing, the sun will rise again from behind the 
mountains. It is thus the sun continues to 
move around us without ever standing still a 
single moment, giving light and warmth to us 
and all other beings round about us.” 


CHAPTER X. 


THE GREATEST QUESTION ANSWERED. 

On hearing these wonders about the sun, 
Henry repeated his former questions which 
the prudent old man had purposely left un- 
answered ; for he wished first to awaken the 
boy’s curiosity so as to prepare him the better 
for the instruction that he intended to give. 
“But who is it,” the boy asked again, “that 
causes the sun always to move in so wonderful 
a manner? Who built this large, fine vault 
above us, and who gave it that lovely blue 
color? By whom was the water confined in 
that rock, so copiously that it never ceases to 
flow? Who is it that directs the clouds, let- 
ting them pass over us in the air so freely, and 
causing them to moisten every living and grow- 
ing thing with numberless drops of sparkling 
water? Who taught the birds to play such 
beautiful songs without the use of a flute? 
Who is it that has inclosed the flowers and 
trees in such small grains, making them spring 
50 


THE GREATEST QUESTION ANSWERED. 51 


up wheresoever we want to have them, cover- 
ing the ground far and wide with a glorious 
carpet of grass and flowers, and presenting us 
with such an abundance of precious gifts? 
Pray, tell me : Who is it that has made this ex- 
cellent arrangement?” 

“And so you really believe,” said Father 
Menrad, “that there is some one who has made 
this wonderful arrangement?” 

“ O yes,” replied Henry, “ I am quite sure of 
it. A person would be most foolish even to 
doubt it. Why, the men with whom I lived 
had to work a long time when our cave be- 
came too small and they wanted to enlarge it 
only a little. Once the roof threatened to fall 
down, and it caused them a great deal of trouble 
to prop it up. But here I do not see even a 
single pillar holding up the roof of this immense 
cavern ! The lamp in our cave did not light it- 
self; and if we didn’t want to sit in the dark, 
we had to take great care to fill the lamp with 
oil at the proper time. And the water vessel 
had to be filled again and again, otherwise we 
surely would have suffered from thirst. How 
difficult it is to cut out a single floWer, and 
how sharp one’s eyesight must be to do the 
work well — that also I know from my own ex- 


52 THE GREATEST QUESTION ANSWERED. 

peru nce. That all the various objects we see 
round about us here were not made by human 
hands — why, who couldn't understand that? 
Now this is just what 1 would like to know: 
Who is it that has made all these things?” 

The moment had come — the boy’s mind being 
so deeply impressed with the idea of the world's 
grandeur, beauty, and wonderful construction, 
his soul being enraptured on beholding the 
manifold blessings which everywhere lay spread 
out before him, his heart being filled with an 
ardent longing to know who the great bene- 
factor is from whom all these blessings came — 
yes, the moment had come when the venerable 
old hermit should begin to speak to the boy 
about God, about t^e infinite power, wisdom, 
and goodness of the Creator. In words that 
betokened the most profound respect, in a tone 
of voice trembling with emotion, and his eyes 
filled with tears, the hermit told Henry that he 
was right — that there is One who had made all 
these things, that this almighty, all- wise, all - 
bountiful Being, who had created all things 
and by whom men also were created, is called 
— God, our dear Father in heaven. 

How deeply the boy had been moved when 
for the first time he witnessed the glorious rising 


THE GREATEST QUESTION ANSWERED. 53 


of the sun, so beautifully illumining with its 
golden light all the things about him ! But the 
emotion that filled his soul at this moment was 
much deeper. The thought of God rose in. his 
mind like a sun shining forth from within and 
warming his soul. The world round about ap- 
peared to him in a kindly, beautiful light, as 
being the storehouse of countless blessings 
coming from the loving Father above. 

“Yes, my dear child,” continued Men rad, 
observing the boy’s emotion, “ it is God who 
has made all the things you see here about you. 
He made yon blue vault which we call the firma- 
ment. He it is who kindled the sun and who 
still directs its course. Its light not only dis- 
closes to us His wondrous works and accompa- 
nies us in our daily occupation ; but the sun 
also sends forth its warm rays to ripen the fruit 
cooking them, if we may say so, as we cook the 
food at the fire before eating it. He lets rich 
fountains of water come forth out of the earth; 
He lets it descend in drops from the clouds, to 
quench our thirst and to refresh all the plants 
you see growing. He it is who has spread out 
before us this many-hued carpet of grass and 
flowers. He gave to the flowers their color and 
fragrance. He causes the hard soil to yield 


54 THE GREATEST QUESTION ANSWERED. 


bread for our nourishment, and the hills and 
mountains to produce the delicious wine. He 
loads the branches of the trees with fruit of 
every kind ; He bids the green valleys to flow, 
as it were, with streams of milk, the cliffs and 
hollow trees to drip with honey — and all for 
our use. He made the tree that cools us with 
its shade and warms us with its wood. He 
teaches the birds to sing and with their songs 
to delight us. This lamb here at your feet He 
has clothed with soft wool, from which the 
clothes we both wear are made. He it is, the 
good God, who gives us all that we need for 
shelter during the day and for our repose during 
the night. Ho has made all things so beautiful 
in order that we may be delighted with His 
works, that we may love Him and one day come 
to dwell with Him in a land infinitely more 
beautiful than the region here about us, where 
we shall have much greater joy than we possess 
at present. Though we cannot see God now, 
He yet sees us wherever we may be. He hears 
every word that we speak ; He knows even our 
thoughts. We can converse with Him when- 
ever we like. He it is also who directs our des- 
tinies. He freed you from the robbers’ cave 
and had you carried here to me on the shep- 


THE GREATEST QUESTION ANSWERED. 55 


herd's arm. God is our greatest benefactor* 
our best friend, our kindest Father.” 

Henry listened to the hermit with the utmost 
attention. Not even for one instant did his 
eyes turn away from the venerable face, so 
charmed was he by the words spoken to him. 
While they were conversing, night came ; but 
the boy did not notice it. The moon, which 
had at first moved in the sky like a pale cloud- 
let scarcely noticeable, was now shining with 
all its noct urnal splendor. It stood right above 
the lake, surrounded by a multitude of brightly 
glittering stars. The lake appeared like a 
mirror in which one could see reflected a second 
firmament, with another moon and a countless 
array of stars, a world of shining lights that 
seemed to be limitless. The atmosphere was 
quiet — not a breath of air to stir the leaves of 
the trees. All nature was hushed, observing a 
reverent silence. Little Henry felt something 
in his heart that he had never felt before, namely 
the sense of devotion and homage which the 
vivid remembrance of God’s invisible Presence 
inspires. At this same moment Father Menrad 
folded his hands ; and with his eyes raised 
heavenward he began to pronounce the words 
of a prayer, telling the boy to pronounce the 


56 THE GREATEST QUESTION ANSWERED. 


words after him. Henry also, for the first time 
in his life, raised his hands toward heaven, re- 
peating the words of the prayer uttered by the 
saintly recluse. A flood of happy tears coursed 
down his cheeks as he recalled to mind that 
God, whom up to that hour he had not known, 
had nevertheless bestowed so many favors on 
him. When Menrad had concluded his prayer, 
how great was his joy when he heard the boy, 
of his own accord, adding these words : “ I 
thank Thee also, my dear God, for having led 
me out of the dark cavern, and for guiding me 
to the home of this good man, who has told me 
so many things about Thee that are grand and 
beautiful.” 

After the prayer Father Menrad took the 
boy by the hand and conducted him into his 
hut. There he prepared a bed for him, made 
out of the softest moss that he could find. 
Henry lay down on the blanket which was 
spread out over the moss, and the hermit covered 
him with his own mantle. 


CHAPTER XI. 


A JOURNEY TO THE MOUNTAINS. 

Father Menrad kept the boy with him 
during the summer for the purpose of instruct- 
ing him further, and also that lie might gradu- 
ally lead him to abandon the many unbecoming 
expressions and ill manners acquired from the 
evil company in which he had lived. Besides 
this he also expected that a wholesome diet and 
the bracing mountain air would greatly im- 
prove Henry’s complexion ; for the boy had be- 
come very pale by reason of his confinement 
in the cave. The joy of his parents would be 
so much greater, if they could see their child 
returned to them with the complexion of per- 
fect health. And in fact Henry soon began to 
improve in appearance, his face assuming the 
lovely and graceful hue of a rose in the light of 
the morning sun. 

About the middle of autumn the hermit con- 
cluded to take up his staff once more and to go 
in search of the boy’s parents. He had for- 
merly traversed the country far and wide and 
57 


58 


A JOURNEY TO THE MOUNTAINS. 


visited many of the towns and cities ; now he 
would visit the places again in hopes of finding 
some trace of the parents to whom his youthful 
ward belonged. Moreover he had requested 
the father of the young shepherd who had 
brought the boy to his hut to take charge of 
Henry until he would come and get him. This 
man, a prudent and very devout peasant, lived 
in a hut that stood some distance within the 
mountain district. Thither Father Menrad 
wanted to conduct the boy before commencing 
his search. 

It was on a bright and lovely autumn morn- 
ing that the hermit awakened the boy from his 
sleep. The morning-star had just arisen in the 
eastern sky. Menrad took the boy with him 
up to the chapel where he spent some time in 
fervent prayer to obtain God’s blessing for their 
journey. After breakfast he provided himself 
with the victuals they would need while travel- 
ing, and then set out on the journey to the 
mountains. Henry accompanied his aged 
friend, his heart full of gladness. They trav- 
eled only on solitary foot-paths used by Alpine 
shepherds and hunters. About noon they came 
to a cliff that rose before them almost perpen- 
dicular, and on which, far above them, they saw 


A JOURNEY TO THE MOUNTAINS. 


59 


some goats clambering up the steep incline. 
Here they sat down in the shade to rest awhile 
and to partake of a slender noonday meal. 

While they were eating, the goat-herd’s little 
son came up to kiss Father Menrad’s hand. 
Henry jumped up and cried out in amazement, 
“Why, here is another boy just like myself! 
Oh, isn’t that lucky ! I had no idea that there 
are more such small persons ; I thought I was 
the only boy on earth. Say, you will go with 
us, won’t you?” The boy offered to carry 
Father Menrad’s gripsack ; and then they pro- 
ceeded on their way, little Henry conversing so 
eagerly with his boy companion that he scarcely 
took notice of anything else. 

After some time they arrived in a small green 
valley surrounded by lofty cliffs, where they 
found a herd of sheep grazing in a meadow. 
This herd belonged to the man with whom 
Menrad intended to leave the boy. Henry was 
overjoyed on seeing a couple of lambs which 
were only a few days old. He began to stroke 
them fondly, calling them all kinds of endear- 
ing names. 

In the meantime the hermit was looking 
about to find the shepherd. A short distance 
away, reclining under a projecting cliff from 


60 


A JOURNEY TO THE MOUNTAINS. 


which a small fountain of water was flowing, 
he noticed a shepherd girl. In one hand she 
had her staff, while in the other, to the hermit’s 
astonishment, she was holding a book, in the 
reading of which she seemed to be entirely ab- 
sorbed. Father Menrad quietly approached 
her. The girl was dressed in white ; the hat 
she wore was green. Her features were unusu- 
ally gentle, but one could see on her face the 
expression of a secret grief. She had never 
seen Father Menrad ; but from the description 
she had heard she recognized him immediately, 
and so she arose and saluted him in a manner 
that betokened both friendliness and a visible 
sense of joyful confidence. 

“ I presume you have not been tending this 
herd very long,” thus Menrad addressed the 
girl. “ When I spoke to your master a short 
time ago, he did not say anything to me about 
you.” She replied that she had already been 
engaged several years tending sheep in that 
mountain district, but only three days pre- 
viously had she entered the service of her pres- 
ent good master. “ Where are you from ? ” the 
hermit continued. “ And why are you so sad ? ” 
The girl began to weep. 44 Alas ! ” said she, 
44 1 have come from a place that is far away. 


A JOURNEY TO THE MOUNTAINS. 


61 


An act of youthful folly has plunged me into 
the deepest distress. I was employed in the 
service of an excellent noble family. I was so 
thoughtless as to leave the only child of the 
family, a most lovely boy, alone and unguarded 
only for a few moments ; and when I returned 
to the room, I found that the boy had been 
stolen by robbers. My sorrow and misery were 
such that I could not remain with my good 
mistress any longer, to be a witness of her dis- 
tress ; and so I left secretly to flee into the 
mountains. Here I am living in solitude, daily 
praying to God that He may deign to repair the 
injury I have caused — namely, that He may 
rescue the child and change the indescribable 
grief of the mother into joy. God, I am con- 
fident, will have pity on my tears, which no one 
sees me shed except Himself and these lonely 
cliffs.” 

Father Men rad said, his voice trembling with 
emotion, “ I think God has heard your prayer 
this very moment.” He drew from his pocket 
the little portrait of Henry’s mother which he 
had taken with him on the journey, expecting 
that it might aid him in finding her; and show- 
ing it to the girl, he asked, “Do you know this 
portrait?” The girl uttered a loud cry both of 


62 


A JOURNEY TO THE MOUNTAINS. 


terror and gladness. “ 0 God ! ” slie exclaimed, 
“this is the portrait of the Countess von Ei- 
chenfels, the mother of the stolen child. ” 

Hearing the girl’s outcry, little Henry came 
running up to her. He viewed this new ap- 
parition with staring eyes, and then said full of 
pity, “ Why are you weeping, and what is ailing 
you? Perhaps you are hungry. Here I have 
some bread and two apples for you. Take them 
and eat.” 

Menrad, however, said to the girl, “ Behold, 
this boy is the child that was robbed together 
with the portrait.” The poor girl felt at this 
moment as though her heart must break from 
joy and fear. She sank on her knees, and 
raising her hands high above her toward the 
sky, she exclaimed, “ Yes, Thou good and mer- 
ciful God, Thou hast heard the prayer which 
day and night I have sent up to Thee. Mayest 
Thou graciously receive the thanks I now pro- 
nounce. Thou beholdest my gratitude, though 
I cannot express it in words.” Then with 
burning tears flowing down her face, she em- 
braced the long-lost boy. “ Oh, may God bless 
you, my dear little Henry ! ” she cried. “ Has 
God really brought you back to us? Are you 
really the child that was stolen, or am I only 


A JOURNEY TO THE MOUNTAINS. 


63 


dreaming? — Yes, you are the child ; you resem- 
ble your noble father as much as one dewdrop 
resembles another. Oh, how glad your mother 
will be ! Yes, and your own joy shall be very 
great ; for, behold ! we are now going to bring 
you back to your father and mother ! ” 

Father Menrad wiped the tears out of his 
eyes and said, “ Praise and honor to Thee, O 
merciful God ! Thy fatherly Providence is 
visibly caring for this child. Thou dryest the 
tears of this unhappy maiden who has cried to 
Thee without ceasing. Thou restorest to the 
parents their most dearly beloved child. Thou 
hast blessed my very first steps, thereby pre- 
serving me, a man enfeebled by age, from the 
necessity of continuing the search for a long 
time. May Thy goodness and mercy be praised 
forever.” 

Menrad, accompanied by Henry and Marga- 
ret, then proceeded on his journey to the peas- 
ant’s hut, which they reached after about half 
an hour’s walk. The little goat herd had deliv- 
ered the hermit’s gripsack to Margaret, saying 
he would tend the sheep in her stead until he 
were relieved of the task. 

“ Are these my father and mother ? ” asked 
Henry, when he saw the peasant and his wife 


64 


A JOURNEY TO THE MOUNTAINS. 


waiting at the door of the hut, ready to receive 
their visitors ; and he felt very sorry when he 
was told that the man and woman were not his 
parents. “ They are so friendly,” he remarked. 
“I am sure, my father and mother could not 
be friendlier than they are. I should like to 
have stayed right here with them.” Menrad, 
Henry, and Margaret took some refreshment 
that the peasant’s wife furnished them, after 
which they set out again on their journey. The 
young shepherd, by his kind father’s command, 
accompanied them also. Toward evening they 
descended from the mountains into a large val- 
ley where they found lodgings for the night in 
the nearest town. At dawn of day the next 
morning they left in a farm-wagon driven by 
the generous young shepherd, hoping to arrive 
at Eichenfels in about three days. 


CHAPTER XII. 


AN UNEXPECTED VISIT. 

The first day of the journey passed very 
pleasantly. Henry was extremely delighted 
with his ride ; and the many villages, towns, 
and castles they drove past so hurriedly were 
new objects of joyful wonder to the boy. Every 
time he caught sight of a castle rising over the 
brow of a distant mountain he would ask if 
that were not Eichenfels. 

Toward evening of the second day our travel- 
ers reached the edge of a dense forest. The 
roads were so bad that they could scarcely go 
any farther. Besides this a fearful storm had 
just overtaken them and the rain was pouring 
down in torrents. Night came and the dark- 
ness increased from minute to minute. They 
were obliged to take lodging in a tavern which 
was located in the midst of the forest. More- 
over, this forest was said to be infested by rob- 
bers. However, the travelers took their even- 
ing meal, after which the}' soon retired to 
their beds in order to set out again oh their 


66 


AN UNEXPECTED VISIT. 


journey so much earlier the next morning. 
Greatly fatigued, they all fell asleep in a short 
time. Father Menrad alone kept awake. He 
had taken little Henry with him to his room ; 
and while the boy slumbered peacefully, the 
hermit remained kneeling at the table on which 
a lighted candle stood, spending the hours till 
almost midnight in reading and praying. 

All of a sudden Menrad heard the sounds of 
a great uproar coming from without. The 
harsh voices of several men could be clearly 
distinguished ; and immediately after there was 
a violent rapping at the door and the window 
shutters. All the inmates of the tavern were 
awakened by the noise, and every one became 
seriously alarmed. “O God!” exclaimed 
Margaret, “ I fear they are the robbers. They 
have come to take the young count from us 
again.” The hermit who had just stepped out 
of his room told the girl to be silent. The 
tavern-keeper himself seemed badly frightened 
and declared that he could not venture to open 
the door. The men outside became more bois- 
terous, threatening to break in the door if it 
were not opened. 

The, hermit, who was a man full of cour- 
age, said to those around him, “ To keep the 


AN UNEXPECTED VISIT. 


67 


door locked will do us no good. God is our 
protector ; in His almighty hand we shall all 
be safe. I will go down and open the door. 
Perhaps, if we receive the men kindly, they will 
do us no harm.” 

Menrad opened the door; and four bearded 
men, very robust and heavily armed, entered 
the tavern. One of them carried a lighted 
torch. “We have to examine every room and 
apartment of this house,” they declared sul- 
lenly. “ Our commander will be here directly 
with a number more of our men, and he wants 
to have the entire house at his disposal.” Men- 
rad asked them who their commander was, and 
the answer he received was a surprise for him 
as unexpected as it was joyful: — the com- 
mander, namely, was Count Frederick von 
Eichenfels, little Henry’s father. The count, 
so his retainers said, had been seriously 
wounded in a battle; but having recovered 
from his injury, he concluded not to leave the 
army, but to continue fighting for his country 
until peace were again established. The two 
countries had recently agreed on a treaty of 
peace, and hence the count was now actually 
on his way home, with those of his men who 
had not been buried on the Turkish frontier. 


68 


AN UNEXPECTED VISIT. 


The inmates of the tavern were all exceed- 
ingly glad to learn that peace had been rees- 
tablished. They vied with one another in their 
eagerness to entertain t lie brave soldiers, while 
these latter also became very friendly and talka- 
tive. They begged to be excused for having con- 
ducted themselves so rudely. “ In such weather 
as this,” said they, “ when a storm is raging and 
the rain is descending like a cataract, you must 
not take it amiss if even a soldier does not rel- 
ish it to be kept standing at midnight before 
the door of a dwelling-house.” They also ex- 
plained that they had lost their way in the 
dark forest, and that most certainly they would 
not have found the tavern if the light of the 
burning candle had not guided them and helped 
them to find the right road once more. 

The thought that so trifling a circumstance as 
the burning of a candle, while praying at a late 
hour of the night, should be the means of 
directing the count to this forest tavern, filled 
the pious old hermit with joy and admiration. 
He was accustomed to see the directing influ- 
ence of divine Providence in everything that 
happened to him, and therefore he offered God 
a fervent prayer of thanksgiving for having so 
mercifully brought about this happy event. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


THE FATHER’S JOY. 

A SHORT time after the count arrived at the 
inn. He was a tall man of imposing presence. 
His features bore the impress of nobility ; his 
manners were gentle and winning. Soon he 
invited the old hermit to come with him to his 
room, where he asked him to be seated. He 
had some of his own wine brought, with which 
he filled two glasses, the first one for Menrad, 
the other for himself. Having touched his 
friend’s glass with his own, according to the old 
German custom, he proceeded to drink to 
Father Menrad’s health. 

“ You are most cordially welcome, reverend 
Father,” said the count. “ After such a ride, 
and having passed through such a storm, one feels 
how agreeable it is to be under a roof and in a 
warm room. But the sight of your venerable, 
honest face is even more pleasing to me — it 
soothes my spirit, and therefore I feel myself 
urged to open to you my heart. You see how 
merry and contented all my men are, now that 
we are on our way home. I, their master, — as 
69 


70 


THE FATHER'S JOY. 


is often the case in this world — am the only one 
who feels sad and dejected. I fear that some 
misfortune has befallen my home during my 
long absence. My wife, I know, still enjoys 
very good health ; it is about my son, my only 
son, that I feel such anxiety. For a long time 
my wife gave me no definite information in her 
letters concerning the child ; but only in the 
last letter I received did she declare that 
probably I would not get to see the boy again 
in this world. Father Menrad, you are ac- 
quainted with many families of the nobility; 
for I know that you were once yourself a brave 
and well-known knight. You are just now en- 
gaged making a journey, and perhaps you have 
traveled far over the country. Pray tell me : 
Do you know anything about the condition of 
affairs at Eichenfels? If you cannot give me 
any information, I am sure you will speak to me 
some words of consolation.” 

Father Menrad replied with a face that was 
beaming with gladness, “ I can give you the 
very best of information. Your son is well ; 
and moreover, he is the loveliest boy whom I 
have ever seen in all my days.” “Do you 
know him ? ” cried the count eagerly. “ O yes, 
I know the boy very well,” said the hermit. 


THE FATHER'S JOY. 


71 


“ But I must tell you that during your absence 
your son did meet with a peculiar experience.” 
Menrad related to the astonished father all 
that he knew about little Henry’s strange for 
tune. To confirm the truth of what he had 
narrated, the hermit produced the beautiful 
little portrait of the countess. “ Yes, it is she ! ” 
exclaimed the count. “ The image is true to 
life. I expect, she does not now appear so fair 
of complexion. Alas! how much, how dread- 
fully the poor woman must have suffered! — 
But where is the boy at present?” “Here in 
this house,” answered Menrad. “Here in the 
house ! ” cried the count, springing up so quickly 
that his chair was knocked over. “Oh, why 
did you not tell me this right away, venerable 
Father? Lead me to the boy immediately, I 
pray you ! ” 

Menrad took up the burning candle from the 
table, and the count followed him into the room 
to the bed of his son. There lay the boy, sleep- 
ing undisturbed — the very image of childish 
innocence, beautiful as an angel of heaven ! 
The count gazed for some time on the face of 
his son, that face which the light that shone on 
it made appear so charming. “Here we behold 
the old saying verified which tells us that * God 


72 


THE FATHER'S JOY. 


bestows happiness on His children in their 
sleep,’ ” remarked the hermit. The father’s 
eyes were filled with tears. “ My God,” said 
he, “ when I left home for the war, my son was 
only a weeping infant, and now 1 see him here be- 
fore me a most lovely boy. O my dear, loving 
wife ! Now I understand your letters well. I 
thank you for the tender-hearted solicitude 
which moved you to withhold from me the 
knowledge of this great affliction. Henry, my 
darling Henry!” he then exclaimed, taking 
the boy by the hand and softly kissing him, 
u wake up — behold, your father is here ! ” 
Little Henry awoke. For awhile he kept star- 
ing at the count, not being able to rouse his 
senses. At last he said, full of joy and with a 
smile brightening his face, “ Oh, is it true ? 
God bless you, my dearest father! Did my 
mother come with you also ? ” The count lifted 
the boy up and clasped him in his arms while 
the tears of sweetest joy flowed over his face. 
“ God’s holy providence has wrought a miracle 
in saving you, my darling boy,” he observed. 
“ I cannot be sufficiently grateful to our heavenly 
Father for having restored you to me.” “Nor 
can I be thankful enough,” said Henry. “ O 
the good God ! How full of love and goodness 


THE FATHER'S JOY. 


73 


He is since He (ills our hearts with so much 
joy!” The count was exceedingly delighted ; 
and when the boy, now fully awake, showed 
such an amount of natural adroitness in answer- 
ing and asking questions, the father’s joy was 
great almost beyond expression. “ O Menrad,” 
he exclaimed, “ what a debt of gratitude I owe 
you! The whole of my estate would not be 
sufficient to reward you for the instruction you 
have given him.” 

In the meantime Margaret also had come 
into' the room. She stood some distance away, 
feeling very timid. The count saluted her 
kindly, extended his hand to her, and spoke 
some words of encouragement. “ But the rob- 
bers ! ” he continued, full of indignation. “I 
will make them suffer for their evil deeds.” 
That very night he dispatched the most fear- 
less of his men, with orders and a special com- 
mission to hunt them up in their hiding-place, 
and to bring them as prisoners to Eichenfels. 
Then he began to converse again with his son ; 
and no doubt, he would have remained up all 
night, if Father Menrad had not reminded him 
that they all needed rest if they wished to 
reach Eichenfels the next day in good spirits 
and at the appointed time. 


/ 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE AFFLICTED MOTHER CONSOLED. 

After the robbery of her child the good, 
noble hearted countess lived in her castle of 
Eichenfels constantly filled with grief and deep 
sorrow. She also received the message inform- 
ing her that peace was again established, and 
so she expected to see her husband very soon. 
The thought of what a meeting this would be 
caused her to shed an abundance of tears. “ O 
my God!” she cried, ** how unfortunate I am ! 
What everybody else would consider an occa- 
sion of rejoicing, fills me with inexpressible 
grief. Every poor soldier’s wife looks forward 
with joy to the return of her husband — and I 
cannot even think of the arrival of my husband 
without a sense of the most profound fear and 
anxiety. Alas ! my dear husband, what an af- 
fliction is in store for you ! How shall I relate 
to you the terrible story of our son’s disappear- 
ance? Oh, for us both there will never again 
be even a single hour of gladness.” 

The afflicted woman’s fear was so great that 
74 


THE AFFLICTED MOTHER CONSOLED. 


75 


she coukl scarcely control it. Nowhere could 
she find peace or quiet. She went from one 
room to another ; then she sought the house- 
chapel; and then again she went down into the 
garden. Wherever she went she prayed to 
God in her heart. In prayer, and in the 
thought that an all-wise Providence rules the 
destinies of men, finding a happy solution for 
even the most tangled human affairs— in this 
alone did the unhappy mother find consolation. 

The countess had just retired again to the 
lonely bower of her garden, where she could 
weep and pray without being observed. “ O 
merciful God!” she sighed, “have pity on me, 
have pity on my husband! Lift from me this 
crushing burden of grief, for Thou alone canst 
do it. Oh, let our reunion be a joyful one. 
Thy all-wise providence has ordered that 
father, mother, and child should be separated, 
to live far apart from each other; oh, that 
Thou wouldst restore the child to us and let us 
three again be united ! Thou hast dried innu- 
merable tears : do Thou also dry the tears 
that I am weeping. Art Thou not the God of 
infinite mercy whose most cherished work it is 
to change the sorrow of those that mourn into 
gladness? O Father, dearest Father of heaven! 


76 


THE AFFLICTED MOTHER * ONSOLED . 


Though I am a sinner, I am nevertheless lhy 
daughter, and as such I may call Thee Father; 
yes, Thy Son commandeth me to call Thee by 
that dear name. Oh, do Thou hear my prayer ! 
Do not repel Thy child, Thy daughter, who 
has no other refuge but Thee ! ” 

While thus engaged in prayer, she heard the 
footfall of some one approaching. Looking 
about her, behold ! she saw Margaret, who had 
just arrived with her fellow travelers, coming 
down the long, shady arcade of the garden. 
The girl was nearing the bower in which the 
countess was praying. A bright ray of hope 
shone into the sorrowing mother’s heart when 
she recognized her former governess and beheld 
the expression of joy on the girl’s face. She 
felt as though it were an angel from heaven 
sent to console her. O my dearest, most 
noble lady,” thus Margaret began, “ I am the 
bearer to you of the best and happiest news 
concerning your darling Henry. The boy is 
alive— and soon you shall see him again.” 
Margaret had scarcely begun to explain the 
message she had been intrusted with, when 
Father Menrad also entered the arbor for the 
purpose of preparing the countess for the meet- 
ing that was to take place between herself arid 


THE AFFLICTED 310 THE R CONSOLED. 


77 


her child and husband. The prudent old man 
understood well how to arrange everything. 
The countess was now filled with unspeakable 
joy, hoping as she did that within a few days’ 
time she would see her husband and son again. 
She led Father Menrad to the room formerly 
occupied by Henry and herself. 

When she opened the door, lo ! her husband 
came toward her, bearing her son Henry on his 
arm. She could only exclaim, “O my hus- 
band ! O my child ! ” before she sank weeping 
into the arms of the count. A long time did 
she weep in a speechless transport of joy, mois- 
tening with her tears the face of her son as also 
that of her husband. “ Oh, now I would gladly 
die,” she said at last, “ since I have lived long 
enough to enjoy the happiness of this blessed 
hour. How wonderfully God has disposed 
everything! I could not but tremble with 
fear, my dearest husband, even at the thought 
that 1 would have to meet you without our 
Henry ; and now, in the very moment of our 
meeting, you yourself bring our son to me on 
your arms ! — O God, as long as I may yet live, 
I shall never be able to thank Thee sufficiently 
for having brought this dreadful affair to so 
happy a conclusion ! — O my Henry, what a 


78 THE AFFLICTED MOTHER CONSOLED. 


lovely boy you have grown to be since last I 
saw you ! My dear husband, how blessed the 
reunion that God has prepared for us three 1 
He it is who allowed us to be separated from 
one another: He it is who now so wonderfully 
unites us again. To Him, our bountiful God, 
be adoration, praise, and thanksgiving for- 
ever ! ” The husband, wife, and son wept tears 
of joy and gratitude toward God. Margaret 
also could not help weeping, and the hermit 
felt the tears of joy flowing over his cheeks. 

When the first transport of joy was over, 
little Henry began to tell his mother the story 
of the wonderful experience he had met with. 
His description was so vivid that the countess 
had to shed tears, and then again she could not 
help smiling. Specially interesting was that 
part of his narrative telling of his escape from 
the den, and how he felt when for the first time 
he beheld the sky above him. But his joy and 
emotion were the greatest when he spoke of 
the instruction in which Father Menrad con- 
veyed to him his first idea of God. Even now’, 
while he was telling his story, the tears were 
constantly flowing from his eyes. 

“Indeed,” said the count, U I could almost 
wish that I had passed the days of my own 


THE AFFLICTED MOTHER CONSOLED. 


79 


childhood in such a cavern. We are too much 
accustomed to the view which we daily have of 
God’s wonderful works. Oh, that we also, like 
Henry, might behold God’s works only after 
we have come to the use of reason, and all at 
once for the first time — what an impression 
that would make on our minds ! Thou God of 
infinite goodness, how we would be amazed on 
beholding Thy power; how we would admire 
Thy wisdom and rejoice because of Thy 
bounty ! On thus viewing for the first time 
Thy glorious firmament and the beautiful earth 
— how deeply we would realize this truth: 
The happy impression we receive in our own 
minds must come from the mind of One whose 
love is without limit!” 

The countess then said, “ What little Henry 
felt when for the first time he stood under 
God’s beautiful sky after his long sojourn in 
the under-ground cave, that we also shall feel 
when once we have entered our heavenly home 
after our life here on earth is ended. For is it 
not true ? Those playthings that Henry used 
— the flowers, lambs, and trees, from which he 
derived many a pleasure while living in the 
cave — were they not very imperfect imitations 
of the same real works of God on earth? In 


80 


THE AFFLICTED MOTHER CONSOLED. 


like manner we may be certain that all the visi- 
ble beauties of this world, all the pleasures we 
enjoy here below, are even less than shadows of 
the real beauties and pleasures of heaven. The 
joy one experiences in being united again, after 
a long and painful separation, with those whom 
one loves so dearly — this very joy brings us as 
it were a foretaste of that greater joy to be ex- 
perienced in heaven when we shall meet again 
the friends whom death parted from us. In 
this hour of our blissful reunion I really feel 
myself so happy that I might almost imagine 
myself as being already in heaven.” 

The venerable recluse, in his turn, spoke as 
follows: “The sentiments expressed by you, 
my noble count, as also those uttered by your 
pious wife, are certainly very beautiful and 
most edifying. But the most important lesson 
we are to learn from little Henry’s story must 
still be this: The wisdom, love, and goodness 
of God shine forth so splendidly from the 
heavens and the earth that even a child can 
see enough traces of them to recognize the 
Creator in His creatures.” 


CHAPTER XV. 


REWARD AND PUNISHMENT. 

A few days later the men whom the count 
had sent out to capture the robbers returned 
from their expedition. They had surprised the 
whole band, the robbers happening to be to- 
gether in the cavern ; and now the criminals 
were brought to Eichenfels, bound two and two 
together by heavy chains. The robbers were 
marched ahead, a wagon full of trunks follow- 
ing them. The trunks contained the many 
valuable articles robbed by the gang. Above 
these trunks sat the old gipsy woman. The 
robbers had not felt any concern whatever 
when they learned that the boy was gone. 
They found that the iron door was still firmly 
locked, and the cleft in the rock through which 
Henry had escaped was entirely unknown to 
them. The passage leading to this opening 
was greatly decayed, so much so that they con- 
sidered it too dangerous ever to enter it. So 
they believed that the boy had either fallen 
into one of the immensely deep pits of the old 
81 


82 


REWARD AND PUNISHMENT. 


mine, or that he was buried alive by one of the 
passages caving in on him. 

The robbers were therefore very much sur- 
prised when on being led into Eichenfels they 
beheld the young count standing beside his 
father near the gate of the castle. They could 
not comprehend how it was possible for him to 
escape through the iron door. “ We imagined 
that nobody on earth could surpass us in cun- 
ning,” growled the leader of the gang full of 
sullen rage, “but now we must see that even a 
child can outwit us and be the cause of bring- 
ing us into prison. It is enough to make one 
mad. Now I feel the truth of what I never 
wanted to believe : — When a thief is ripe for 
the gallows, a limping bailiff will catch him.” 
And that one of the musicians who had played 
the tambourine, and who was now also among 
the prisoners, said to himself, “ We robbed this 
child that it might be the means of saving us 
when we got into trouble ; but now it is this 
very child that will be the cause of our ruin. 
People may be right after all when they say : 
He that does wrong will discover in the end 
that he has made a mistake in his reckoning.” 
William, the young man who had always treated 
little Henry with kindness and consideration, 


REWARD AND PUNISHMENT. 


83 


and whose disposition was not altogether evil, 
remarked, “It was God who ordained that the 
boy should escape, and I am glad to see that 
he is alive and well, though that very fact will 
be the cause of my death. In this instance 
God again manifests His power, namely that 
He can save the innocent from destruction and 
visit the guilty with the punishment they de- 
serve. I see verified what my deceased father 
once told me, and which saying was so often 
repeated to me by my mother : Even though 
the culprit may hide himself in the middle of 
the earth, the avenging justice of God will find 
him and draw him out to let him suffer the 
penalty he has incurred.” 

When Henry noticed the poor young man 
bound with chains like the other robbers, he 
felt great pity for him ; and he begged his father 
not to let the unfortunate youth who had shown 
him so much kindness suffer any punishment. 
The count replied that he could not then make 
any definite promise, but that he would treat 
the young man as leniently as possible. At the 
trial it was shown that William had never spilt 
human blood, and that he had acted rather as a 
servant of the robbers and not as a member of 
the gang. His life was therefore spared. In- 


84 


REWARD AND PUNISHMENT. 


stead of being executed he was sentenced to 
imprisonment for life. Count Frederick less- 
ened this punishment by deciding that the 
young man should remain in .the workhouse 
until he had given sufficient proof of having 
amended his life, after which he would be al- 
lowed to return to his home. “ Behold,” ob- 
served the count when William was about to be 
led away, “as the evil that is done finds its sure 
punishment, so also does the good that is per- 
formed find its reward. You owe the mitiga- 
tion of your punishment to the kindness with 
which you treated my son. Yes, I will do 
more. The good services you did to my son I 
will repay by caring for your unhappy mother. 
Let your conduct be such that I may be en- 
abled soon to let you return to her.” 

The other robbers all had to suffer the penalty 
of death for the bloody deeds they had per- 
petrated. The old gipsy woman was impris- 
oned for life. The property that had been 
robbed by the gang was restored to such of the 
owners as could be found. The remainder was 
devoted to the erection of an orphan asylum. 
As a special act of thanksgiving to God the 
count added a considerable sum of money, 
while the countess sacrificed all her jewelry. 


REWARD AND PUNISHMENT. 


85 


Margaret who was reemployed by the countess • 
felt exceedingly happy. After long years of 
bitter grief she again experienced the joy of a 
peaceful and quiet conscience. George, the 
garden-boy, had long since been expelled from 
the castle on account of his levity and careless- 
ness. Besides he had fallen a victim to intem- 
perance and other vicious habits, in conse- 
quence of which he died of consumption in the 
very prime of life. The young shepherd from 
the mountains returned to his parents after 
the count had rewarded him with many rich 
presents. 

Count Frederick wished the good old hermit 
to remain with him in the castle. Father 
Menrad did remain for some time ; but he 
could not be persuaded to exchange his hermit- 
age for a lasting sojourn in the castle. “ I 
desire to devote the rest of my life entirely to 
God,” so he declared. “ I think I can do that 
best in the solitude. I have lived long enough 
in the world, and therefore I know from ex- 
perience what the world is. To prepare our- 
selves for a better world is the best we can do 
while we live here on the earth.” The venera- 
ble recluse, before his departure which all felt 
to be a very sad event, blessed the count, the 


86 


REWARD AND PUNISHMENT. 


countess, and little Henry. The boy could 
hardly be separated from his friend and bene- 
factor. All the members of the family accom- 
panied the good old man to the carriage that 
was waiting before the gate of the castle. 
Father Menrad entered the carriage; and before 
he drove away he once more gazed lovingly on 
his friends, saying: “Farewell, and may the 
peace of God always remain with you ! Let us 
hope that we may all one day meet again in 
heaven.” 


THE END. 



























































































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